


Set him off

by CharlieHarris



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieHarris/pseuds/CharlieHarris
Summary: Short John Wick and reader AU, contains some swearing and bit dirty. Set at the end of the first movie, John pays the vet a home visit. Please don't read if easily offended. I wrote this just for fun and published it ages back on fanfiction so this is a repost. Love to get comments if you have time! Thanks.





	Set him off

**Set him off.**

I woke with a start. Heart racing as I willed myself into consciousness. Bad dream? No something else had disturbed me, my senses were alert, adrenaline running. I tried to slow my breathing. Everything was silent but the pattern of light in the room felt off, it took me a moment to notice it, but there it was, a shadow across the floor that had no right to be there. The source of the shadow was a tall man slumped against the door jam. John Wick. Of course. How did he even get in?

"I know you're awake." he mumbled. Always softly spoken and calm like the eye of the storm around him.

"What are you doing here?" relaxing now that I knew it wasn't a mad axe murderer, well not one that meant me any harm. I still felt angry at the imposition but also a spark of excitement. John turning up in the middle of the night could mean one of two things, usually both. Hopefully he wasn't too bad this time.

He stumbled slightly, trying to balance against the frame of the door, "It's been a rough night, I need some rest." Understated and inarticulate was always his style.

"Let me take a look at you then. Will I need my kit?"

"Um. Yeah."

I rolled over, stretched and flicked on my bedside lamp. Warm light flooded the room and revealed the handsome, lean man in his immaculately cut suit. Looking every inch the successful business man, except for the bruises and of course the blood. Probably other peoples' but it was hard to tell until I cleaned him up. I was dreading the night that I wouldn't be able to fix him, but thank god, it didn't look like this was that night.

I dragged myself from the warmth of the duvet and pulled out the plastic sheet underneath the bed, it hadn't been used in a while but was still there just in case he showed up unexpectedly. Smoothing out the covers and protecting my nest with the sheeting, I motioned for him to come in and lay down.

"Thought you had retired?"

No answer except a shrug. As he passed by he pulled me close, a kiss on the top of the head, and I was flooded with the familiar scents of metallic blood, bourbon and sweat. Dangerous and comforting at the same time. He lay on the sheet, stretching out his long limbs, feet hanging off the end of the bed. I removed his shoes and watched as he loosened his tie. I always liked the way he moved his hands, everything was graceful and precise, even now when his movements were limited by pain.

"I'll just get my things, don't pass out on me yet." I instructed. "Sure" he replied, hint of a smirk on his lips, an old joke. That was good he wasn't too bad if there was still a trace of humour.

By the time I was back from the surgery with my kit his eyes were closed and breathing ragged. I tried not to pay attention to the various holsters and weapons laid out around him. He hadn't heard me enter the room which was unusual, it was hard to sneak up on this man, so he must be internalising and focusing on controlling the pain. I'd need some ketamine.

"Come on John, help me here." I pulled him into a sitting position and he started to strip down, each layer revealing more blood. His chest was marbled by fresh bruising; it looked like he had taken a hell of a beating. On his right side the skin was a torn bloody mess but fortunately it was only a shallow wound where a bullet had clipped him without reaching it's intended destination. The rib was probably broken too but I couldn't do much about that and he would heal. Most of the blood belonged to someone, an ex-someone, else.

"Were you followed here?" the question came instinctively but as the words left my lips I realised it was something I never needed to ask. He would rather bleed out in a ditch than bring the bad men to my door. He snarled. "Sorry. I don't need to ask. Do you want anything?" I was only a vet, horse tranqs were the best I could offer. He shrugged, pissed off and uncommunicative, "bourbon?"

The bottle and tumbler were already in my kit, it was usually his preferred pain relief until he knew it was safe to pass out. He liked to be 'functional'. Ignoring the glass he sipped the bourbon from the bottle, lost in his own thoughts, I guess processing the evening's events, as I cleaned and stapled his wounds. I was as gentle as possible but it would be painful, even for the bogeyman. He winced as I finished repairing the damage and sponged off the remaining blood then I passed him the pills to ease his pain and lull him into a dreamless sleep.

"Thank you" he pulled me close and bent down to press his lips to mine. I felt the old familiar longing rise within me. "Tomorrow yeah." He he lay back against the sheets and closed his eyes.

It was 4am. John was fast asleep and would be out for hours. I was far too wired for sleep. HE was back. In my home. In my bed. I decided to shower to rinse away the night, before trooping downstairs to the couch to watch TV for a while wrapped up in the spare duvet.

The next time I awoke it was to the sound of banging around in the kitchen. He was clearly up and about and feeling better.

"Making myself at home, that ok?" he called out. How did he even know I was awake?

"What's new?" I shot back.

"I made you coffee." He came into the room with his peace offering. He looked rested and relaxed, wearing some old grey t-shirt and shorts he must have stashed somewhere in the house on his last visit. His dark hair messy and still damp from the shower. Typical liberties. Apart from small cuts on his cheek and across the bridge of his nose, and some bruising around his left shoulder he could almost pass for a normal guy. But of course no one that knew him would ever think of John as a 'guy'. A man but not a guy, a pal, a buddy or a dude.

We first met when I worked in a bar putting myself through college. I thought he was just a guy then, a normal, quiet kind of sort that keeps to themselves, but of course I couldn't have been more wrong. He came in regularly around last orders. He would turn up when the place was empty and linger over a single drink. He seemed lonely so I made an extra effort to talk to him, the conversation was pretty one sided, but nothing new there. You'd never describe John as a conversationalist.

Then everything changed one evening, when two yobs tried to empty the till and have some fun with me in the process. They hadn't noticed John sitting silently in the corner, so still he was almost part of the scenery and he could have walked away but I'll always be thankful that he decided to intervene. I'd never seen violence like that, or at such close quarters, as he took both men down with nothing but a cocktail stirrer. He cleaned me up, took me home and stayed for a few nights. It changed the narrative for me and I won't ever forget that. He knows it and so we have a connection that makes me part of a very small circle of people that John trusts.

Unlike the disposable women that drift in and out of his life, I give him something that he always needs and in his own way he's there for me too. Ours is a strange relationship, more symbiotic than romantic. I don't think either of us want anything more, John won't love anyone after Helen, won't open himself up to pain like that again. And for my part he's an unfinished symphony, beautiful but all minor and no major keys, so sometimes I just need to spend time with uncomplicated, happy go lucky men to keep me in balance. Too much John would be a dangerous thing but fuck me I wanted him, needed him.

"Coffee, you" he growled impatiently snapping me back to the present. He passed me the mug and then systematically started to stretch out, rotate and flex his major muscle groups as he tested his movements. I watched as he moved, not sure if it was ballet or karate but fascinated just the same.

"How's the damage?"

"I'll live. Thanks for taking care of me." That was all the explanation I'd get.

"Always will, but John isn't it time you started to take care of yourself. You're getting older and you can't do this forever you know. No one is invincible."

"I've retired. It was just a workout. I could do with some exercise right now to stop me seizing up." He smirked and held out his hand.

I took his hand in mine and turned it over to examine the bruises. "Kiss it better" his voice a whisper, a command not a suggestion. So that's what he wanted. It was a game we'd played before. I brought his hand to my lips and ran my tongue slowly over the sore knuckles.

"Sure you're up to this?"

"Yeah." He mumbled as he struggled to pull the vest over his head, half smiled and joked "go gentle with me." As if that would ever be necessary!

With a little help he was naked and I stood back to take him in. He waited impassively as I examined him. His looks were dark and brooding, eyes almost black, messy collar length hair, more than a week of stubble. He looked unkempt but his body was obviously well maintained. Lean and athletic with pale skin, he was carved from stone. The bruising didn't look too bad, the dark patina almost suited him. I don't think I'd ever seen him without marks. He was an unusual man, quiet and controlled but capable of great violence, explosive energy hidden just beneath the surface.

I started from the top, stretched on tiptoes to trace the cuts on his cheek with my lips, pushed back his hair to kiss the bruise on his temple, ran my tongue over the red scratches around his neck, an attempted garrote, and gently grazed my teeth over an old scar on his clavicle.

I took my time moving slowly down to his shoulder, vivid bruises, each one kissed and stroked away. The marks on his chest and wound on his ribs needed more care. He groaned softly under my ministrations, each touch erasing the memory of the marks.

No damage below but I couldn't resist letting my fingers trace the soft hair running down from his belly button to his cock. I barely touched him before he snarled and grabbed my wrist twisting my arm firmly behind my back. His movements fluid and precise. There was no point in struggling, this man knew every pressure point, where the blood flows, how the muscles connect, every place to create pain. Or pleasure. If the mood takes him.

"Stop." He held me in position and with the other hand he ripped apart my nightdress and pushed into my knickers. Taking control.

"Ready or not?" Without waiting for my answer he roughly inserted his fingers and stretched me apart.

"Fuck you" I tried to pull away from him. A little resistance turned him on.

"No. Fuck you." He mimicked before pulling me closer and flicking hard against my g spot.

"You like that huh?"

I shook my head. He flicked again then waited for me to pick up on his cue.

"Please..."

And again. Pause.

"John..."

And again. Pause.

"Please John..."

"Do NOT come." He whispered as grazed my neck with his teeth.

And again. Pause.

"Please John please..."

"Now." He flicked again and again and again. Rubbing his palm over my clit as his fingers hit their target.

I came undone.

END


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